


Itch

by nom



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Eleven/Rose, F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nom/pseuds/nom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's an ache like a nagging itch, not knowing how she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Porn Battle IX](http://battle.oxoniensis.org/battle9posted.html), for the prompt "Doctor Who, Eleven/Rose, [any]." Slightly shorter version with more typos [there](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/26521.html?thread=3277721).
> 
> **Spoilers:** Through "The End of Time"

He needs to get her out of his system, somehow. He thought that in a new body that hadn't known her... but no, he's still not being fair to his companions. The others who meant too much he can pretty much handle -- he's mostly coped with losing them to death or transformation.

He still misses Donna, his mate, his crazy pal, but he's coped, doing alright with that now. Every few years he visits with her grandfather, who just keeps on ticking, hears how she's doing, kids, husband, happy. Sarah Jane and Martha he keeps tabs on, and Jack floats through every so often -- once in a great while they even commiserate about losing people.

But Rose, he doesn't _know_ how she is. He has to think that she's alive, that she's happy on that other Earth with that other him, and he should want her to be happy, but... it's an itch.

He knows it's not really him who loved her -- he was a different man then, different men. Still, something nags at him about her, about his pale double who, even if not forever, got to keep her when he couldn't, when he himself never really had her to begin with.

If he can't see how she is now, maybe he should get her out of his system by seeing how she is then. He knows he did it once already, and it was probably rather painful, but those weren't _his_ emotions, _his_ memories, so it doesn't really count.

++

Just seeing her once or twice from a distance turns out not to be enough, the itch is still there. He starts stealing more moments to -- Stalking sounds so... human. Pathetic. Bumbling, awkward, John-Smith-like, that he's decided not to call it that.

No, he's just spending some time -- not as if he doesn't have plenty -- jumping back a bit, forth a few days, and back another few weeks or months to before he first met her, to before that last goodbye he said.

Just to watch her, see her, from a block away, across a square, a seat at the far end of the bus, a few tables over at a café.

++

He doesn't quite mean to follow her and a gaggle of girlfriends into the club they patronize that Saturday evening, but.... It's crowded and dark, she won't be able to recognize him, and he'll be able to see her properly, even in the dimly flashing light, walk by her, touch her, see her.

She glows so brightly -- even if to the men there she's just another attractive girl, nothing truly unusual among the other young women, but to him, to him... Looking at her and walking by becomes moving with her, dancing with her. He brings her the type of fruity cocktail he knows she likes, will like.

When she doesn't say no, doesn't move away, dancing with her turns into grinding himself against her in the tight press of bodies.

She almost pulls away, once, when one of her friends comes close to shout something inaudible into her ear. But his hand, delicately stroking the inside of her wrist of its own volition, seems to tether her, keep her next to him, in front of him, pressed up against him so he can breathe in the scent behind her ear, press his face down into the curve of her neck, move with her, touch her, want her.

After they've danced, wanted, rubbed up against each other for what feels like mere moments but must've been a few hours, he finds himself waiting for her in the hallway in back, doors leading to loos and the outside.

She comes out, and he can see her better -- even though the hallway's dark, the light isn't flashing. She looks part-pouty, flirty, top rearranged for best effect, but partly hesitant, uncertain.

It's still very loud. When he says, "Just come outside with me. For a minute, please? You don't have to stay," she looks half-ready to bolt, but doesn't.

++

Outside, in the alley behind the club, the light is just as dim. There's just a small light over the door, and the sky is dark, summer-humid, overcast. He can't see the galaxies they've travelled together. They can still hear the thumping rhythms of the club's music, but it's quieter there.

"I've got a boyfriend, you know," she says.

"Yes, you must, pretty girl like you. He better be good to you, deserve you. You're..." he says, and then trails off, his fingers moving to run through her hair, over her shoulders, along her face.

He traces her lips with a fingernail and says "Can I?"

Rose tilts up her mouth, opens to him, lets him in. She tastes fresh and sweet, not like the TARDIS yet, not of the stars, just fruit with a tinge of alcohol and something sugar-minty.

She kisses him back, and he touches her, holds her close. They kiss until she's no longer hesitant but eager, willing, biting his neck as he runs his hands under her shirt.

He pushes her up against, down onto something, a surface that lets him fumble through her clothes to get to the soft handfuls of her flesh he craves. He pulls down her top to kiss suck bite her nipples, hardly notices when she drops his jacket, takes off his shirt.

Her nails scratch his back when he touches her slick heat, thumbs her clit, pushes a finger then two inside her. The hot wet squeeze is addictive, he wants more, he wants in, he wants.

Her moans vary with his tempo and pressure, her eyes close as she gets close and he takes it in, watches her face when she comes, his hand busy, eyes drinking her in.

He brings his hand up to taste, but can't bear to move down to lick her, doesn't want to stop seeing her, doesn't want to miss having his mouth on hers, breathing her breath, taking her earlobe between his teeth and raking her neck to hear the wanton sounds she makes.

He keeps fingering her, uses his other thumb to circle her nipple, watches her arch between the touch on her breast and the hand playing her cunt, opening her up. "I need, I want," he says, and she moans "yes" and tugs at his flies.

He finds that he has somehow obtained a prophylactic -- flash of memory, one of the other doors while he was waiting in the hallway, the itch in his mind at fever point, a machine yielding to his half-concealed screwdriver -- and then, and then, he's inside her, taking, thrusting, pounding, giving, sheathing himself in soft slick clenching heat.

He angles up, uses his hand to bring her off again and once more while he thrusts, then slows down and thrusts deeper, feels her tighten around him again in release, hardly hearing her cries of "yes" and "more" and "deep" and "now" through the roaring in his ears that builds and builds and builds as he keeps thrusting into her, calling "Rose, Rose!" as he crescendos and finally, finally comes.

++

Coming back to himself, he discovers that he fucked her on the bonnet of a yellow Mini Cooper some tosser wedged into the alley, between the club door and the wheelie bins. Well, it was more comfortable and looked cleaner than the wall, there's that.

He's lying half on top of her, the nagging itch in his mind dimming and at rest at last, feeling sated, when she asks, "Is that your heart beating so fast, then? It's like you're a runner or something." She doesn't know yet about his two hearts, hearts that should not, that won't again beat for her, this way.

In front of the club, he says "Rose, you're lovely, you're fantastic, you're brilliant, don't ever let anyone say different," and kisses her once more, goodbye.

He fumbles a handful of pound coins at the taxi driver, tells him the Powell Estate. As the taxi drives away and he walks off, he hears her calling "But you never told me your name...."

++

No, he hadn't. He didn't want to be John Smith with her, couldn't be the Doctor, wasn't _her_ Doctor anyway. Better to be just a man, a nameless man who wanted her.

He turns the corner, calmer in mind, accepting that part of him will never stop wanting her, even now the itch is scratched.

+++

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback? Appreciated, here or [at LJ](http://nomanomynous.livejournal.com/3624.html).


End file.
